“There’s food here,” Alfred said vaguely.
“Good,” I said, “because we’re starving.”
“No, I mean there’s food in the marshes,” he said. “Enough food to feed an army. We can raid them, Uhtred, gather men and raid them. But that isn’t enough. I have been thinking. All day, I’ve been thinking.” He looked better now, less pained, and I suspected he had wanted time to think and had found it in this stinking hovel. “I’m not going to run away,” he said firmly. “I’m not going to Frankia.”
“Good,” I said, though I was so cold I was not really listening to him.
“We’re going to stay here,” he said, “raise an army, and take Wessex back.”
“Good,” I said again. I could smell burning. The hearth was surrounded by flat stones and Elwide had put a dozen oat bannocks on the stones to cook and the edges nearest the flames were blackening. I moved one of them, but Alfred frowned and gestured for me to stop for fear of distracting him. “The problem,” he said, “is that I cannot afford to fight a small war.”
I did not see what other war he could fight, but kept silent.
“The longer the Danes stay here,” he said, “the firmer their grip. Men will start giving Guthrum their allegiance. I can’t have that.”
“No, lord.”
“So they have to be defeated.” He spoke grimly. “Not beaten, Uhtred, but defeated!”
I thought of Iseult’s dream but said nothing. Then I thought how often Alfred had made peace with the Danes instead of fighting them, and still I said nothing.
“In spring,” he went on, “they’ll have new men and they’ll spread through Wessex until, by summer’s end, there’ll be no Wessex. So we have to do two things.” He was not so much telling me as just thinking aloud. “First,” he held out one long finger, “we have to stop them from dispersing their armies. They have to fight us here. They have to be kept together so they can’t send small bands across the country and take estates.” That made sense. Right now, from what we heard from the land beyond the swamp, the Danes were raiding all across Wessex. They were going fast, snatching what plunder they could before other men could take it, but in a few weeks they would start looking for places to live. By keeping their attention on the swamp, Alfred hoped to stop that process. “And while they look at us,” he said, “the fyrd must be gathered.”
I stared at him. I had supposed he would stay in the swamp until either the Danes overwhelmed us or we gained enough strength to take back a shire, and then another shire, a process of years, but his vision was much grander. He would assemble the army of Wessex under the Danish noses and take everything back at once. It was like a game of dice and he had decided to take everything he had, little as it was, and risk it all on one throw. “We shall make them fight a great battle,” he said grimly, “and with God’s help we shall destroy them.”
There was a sudden scream. Alfred, as if startled from a reverie, looked up, but too late, because Elwide was standing over him, screaming that he had burned the oatcakes. “I told you to watch them!” she shouted and, in her fury, she slapped the king with a skinned eel. The blow made a wet sound as it struck and had enough force to knock Alfred sideways. The two soldiers jumped up, hands going to their swords, but I waved them back as Elwide snatched the burned cakes from the stones. “I told you to watch them!” she shrieked, and Alfred lay where he had fallen and I thought he was crying, but then I saw he was laughing. He was helpless with laughter, weeping with laughter, as happy as ever I saw him.
Because he had a plan to take back his kingdom.
Æthelingæg’s garrison now had seventy-three men. Alfred moved there with his family and sent six of Leofric’s men to Brant armed with axes and orders to make a beacon. He was at his best in those days, calm and confident, the panic and despair of the first weeks of January swept away by his irrational belief that he would regain his kingdom before summer touched the land. He was immensely cheered, too, by the arrival of Father Beocca who came limping from the landing stage, face beaming, to fall prostrate at the king’s feet. “You live, lord!” Beocca said, clutching the king’s ankles. “God be praised, you live!”
Alfred raised him and embraced him and both men wept, and next day, a Sunday, Beocca preached a sermon that I could not help hearing because the service was held in the open air, under a clear cold sky, and Æthelingæg’s island was too small to escape the priest’s voice. Beocca said how David, King of Israel, had been forced to flee his enemies, how he had taken refuge in the cave of Adullam, and how God had led him back into Israel and to the defeat of his enemies. “This is our Adullam!” Beocca said, waving his good hand at Æthelingæg’s thatched roofs. “And this is our David!” He pointed to the king. “And God will lead us to victory!”
“It’s a pity, father,” I said to Beocca afterward, “that you weren’t this belligerent two months ago.”
“I rejoice,” he said loftily, “to find you in the king’s good graces.”
“He’s discovered the value,” I said, “of murderous bastards like me, so perhaps he’ll learn to distrust the advice of sniveling bastards like you who told him the Danes could be defeated by prayer.”
He sniffed at that insult, then looked disapprovingly at Iseult. “You have news of your wife?”
“None.”
Beocca had some news, though none of Mildrith. He had fled south in front of the invading Danes, getting as far as Dornwaraceaster in Thornsæta where he had found refuge with some monks. The Danes had come, but the monks had received warning of their approach and hid in an ancient fort that lay near the town. The Danes had sacked Dornwaraceaster, taking silver, coins, and women. Then they had moved eastward and shortly after that Huppa, Ealdorman of Thornsæta, had come to the town with fifty warriors. Huppa had set the monks and townspeople to mending the old Roman walls. “The folk there are safe for the moment,” Beocca told me, “but there is not sufficient food if the Danes return and lay siege.” Then Beocca had heard that Alfred was in the great swamps and Beocca had traveled alone, though on his last day of walking he had met six soldiers going to Alfred and so he had finished his journey with them. He brought no news of Wulfhere, but he had been told that Odda the Younger was somewhere on the upper reaches of Uisc in an ancient fort built by the old people. Beocca had seen no Danes on his journey. “They raid everywhere,” he said gloomily, “but God be praised, we saw none of them.”
“Is Dornwaraceaster a large place?” I asked.
“Large enough. It had three fine churches, three!”
“A market?”
“Indeed, it was prosperous before the Danes came.”
“Yet the Danes didn’t stay there?”
“Nor were they at Gifle,” he said, “and that’s a goodly place.”
Guthrum had surprised Alfred, defeated the forces at Cippanhamm, and driven the king into hiding, but to hold Wessex he needed to take all her walled towns, and if Beocca could walk three days across country and see no Danes, then it suggested Guthrum did not have the men to hold all he had taken. He could bring more men from Mercia or East Anglia, but then those places might rise against their weakened Danish overlords, so Guthrum had to be hoping that more ships would come from Denmark. In the meantime, we learned, he had garrisons in Baðum, Readingum, Mærlebeorg, and Andefera, and doubtless he held other places, and Alfred suspected, rightly as it turned out, that most of eastern Wessex was in Danish hands, but great stretches of the country were still free of the enemy. Guthrum’s men were making raids into those stretches, but they did not have sufficient force to garrison towns like Wintanceaster, Gifle, or Dornwaraceaster. In the early summer, Alfred knew, more ships would bring more Danes, so he had to strike before then, to which end, on the day after Beocca arrived, he summoned a council.
There were now enough men on Æthelingæg for a royal formality to prevail. I no longer found Alfred sitting outside a hut in the evening, but instead had to seek an audience with him. On the Monday of the council he
gave orders that a large house was to be made into a church, and the family that lived there was evicted and some of the newly arrived soldiers were ordered to make a great cross for the gable and to carve new windows in the walls. The council itself met in what had been Haswold’s hall, and Alfred had waited till we were assembled before making his entrance, and we had all stood as he came in and waited as he took one of the two chairs on the newly made dais. Ælswith sat beside him, her pregnant belly swathed in the silver fur cloak that was still stained with Haswold’s blood.
We were not allowed to sit until the Bishop of Exanceaster said a prayer, and that took time, but at last the king waved us down. There were six priests in the half circle and six warriors. I sat beside Leofric, while the other four soldiers were newly arrived men who had served in Alfred’s household troops. One of those was a gray-bearded man called Egwine who told me he had led a hundred men at Æsc’s Hill and plainly thought he should now lead all the troops gathered in the swamp. I knew he had urged his case with the king and with Beocca who sat just below the dais at a rickety table on which he was trying to record what was said at the council. Beocca was having difficulties for his ink was ancient and faded, his quill kept splitting, and his parchments were wide margins torn from a missal, so he was unhappy, but Alfred liked to reduce arguments to writing.
The king formally thanked the bishop for his prayer, then announced, sensibly enough, that we could not hope to deal with Guthrum until Svein was defeated. Svein was the immediate threat for, though most of his men had gone south to raid Defnascir, he still had the ships with which to enter the swamp. “Twenty-four ships,” Alfred said, raising an eyebrow at me.
“Twenty-four, lord,” I confirmed.
“So, when his men are assembled, he can muster near a thousand men.” Alfred let that figure linger awhile. Beocca frowned as his split quill spattered ink on his tiny patch of parchment.
“But two days ago,” Alfred went on, “there were only seventy ship guards at the mouth of the Pedredan.”
“Around seventy,” I said. “There could be more we didn’t see.”
“Fewer than a hundred, though?”
“I suspect so, lord.”
“So we must deal with them,” Alfred said, “before the rest return to their ships.” There was another silence. All of us knew how weak we were. A few men arrived every day, like the half dozen who had come with Beocca, but they came slowly, either because the news of Alfred’s existence was spreading slowly, or else because the weather was cold and men do not like to travel on wet, cold days. Nor were there any thegns among the newcomers, not one. Thegns were noblemen, men of property, men who could bring scores of well-armed followers to a fight, and every shire had its thegns who ranked just below the reeve and ealdorman, who were themselves thegns. Thegns were the power of Wessex, but none had come to Æthelingæg. Some, we heard, had fled abroad, while others tried to protect their property. Alfred, I was certain, would have felt more comfortable if he had a dozen thegns about him, but instead he had me and Leofric and Egwine. “What are our forces now?” Alfred asked us.
“We have over a hundred men,” Egwine said brightly.
“Of whom only sixty or seventy are fit to fight,” I said. There had been an outbreak of sickness, men vomiting and shivering and hardly able to control their bowels. Whenever troops gather, such sickness seems to strike.
“Is that enough?” Alfred asked.
“Enough for what, lord?” Egwine was not quick-witted.
“Enough to get rid of Svein, of course,” Alfred said, and again there was silence because the question was absurd.
Then Egwine straightened his shoulders. “More than enough, lord!”
Ælswith bestowed a smile on him.
“And how would you propose doing it?” Alfred asked.
“Take every man we have, lord,” Egwine said, “every fit man, and attack them. Attack them!”
Beocca was not writing. He knew when he was hearing nonsense and he was not going to waste scarce ink on bad ideas.
Alfred looked at me. “Can it be done?”
“They’ll see us coming,” I said. “They’ll be ready.”
“March inland,” Egwine said. “Come from the hills.”
Again Alfred looked at me. “That will leave Æthelingæg undefended,” I said, “and it will take at least three days, at the end of which our men will be cold, hungry, and tired, and the Danes will see us coming when we emerge from the hills, and that’ll give them time to put on armor and gather weapons. And at best it will be equal numbers. At worst?” I just shrugged. After three or four days the rest of Svein’s forces might have returned and our seventy or eighty men would be facing a horde.
“So how do you do it?” Alfred asked.
“We destroy their boats,” I said.
“Go on.”
“Without boats,” I said, “they can’t come up the rivers. Without boats, they’re stranded.”
Alfred nodded. Beocca was scratching away again. “So how do you destroy the boats?” the king asked.
I did not know. We could take seventy men to fight their seventy, but at the end of the fight, even if we won, we would be lucky to have twenty men still standing. Those twenty could burn the boats, of course, but I doubted we would survive that long. There were scores of Danish women at Cynuit and, if it came to a fight, they would join in and the odds were that we would be defeated. “Fire,” Egwine said enthusiastically. “Carry fire in punts and throw the fire from the river.”
“They are ship guards,” I said tiredly, “and they’ll be throwing spears and axes, sending arrows, and you might burn one boat, but that’s all.”
“Go at night,” Egwine said.
“It’s almost a full moon,” I said, “and they’ll see us coming. And if the moon is clouded we won’t see their fleet.”
“So how do you do it?” Alfred demanded again.
“God will send fire from heaven,” Bishop Alewold said, and no one responded.
Alfred stood. We all got to our feet. Then he pointed at me. “You will destroy Svein’s fleet,” he said, “and I would know how you plan to do it by this evening. If you cannot do it then you”—he pointed to Egwine—”will travel to Defnascir, find Ealdorman Odda, and tell him to bring his forces to the river mouth and do the job for us.”
“Yes, lord,” Egwine said.
“By tonight,” Alfred said to me coldly, and then he walked out.
He left me angry. He had meant to leave me angry. I stalked up to the newly made fort with Leofric and stared across the marshes to where the clouds heaped above the Sæfern. “How are we to burn twenty-four ships?” I demanded.
“God will send fire from heaven,” Leofric said, “of course.”
“I’d rather he sent a thousand troops.”
“Alfred won’t summon Odda,” Leofric said. “He just said that to annoy you.”
“But he’s right, isn’t he?” I said grudgingly. “We have to get rid of Svein.”
“How?”
I stared at the tangled barricade that Haswold had made from felled trees. The water, instead of flowing downstream, was coming upstream because the tide was on the flood and so the ripples ran eastward from the tangled branches. “I remember a story,” I said, “from when I was a small child.” I paused, trying to recall the tale, which, I assume, had been told to me by Beocca. “The Christian god divided a sea, isn’t that right?”
“Moses did,” Leofric said.
“And when the enemy followed,” I said, “they were drowned.”
“Clever,” Leofric said.
“So that’s how we’ll do it,” I said.
“How?”
But instead of telling him I summoned the marshmen and talked with them, and by that night I had my plan and, because it was taken from the scriptures, Alfred approved it readily. It took another day to get everything ready. We had to gather sufficient punts to carry forty men and I also needed Eofer, the simpleminded archer. He was u
nhappy, not understanding what I wanted, and he gibbered at us and looked terrified, but then a small girl, perhaps ten or eleven years old, took his hand and explained that he had to go hunting with us. “He trusts you?” I asked the child.
“He’s my uncle,” she said. Eofer was holding her hand and he was calm again.
“Does Eofer do what you tell him?”
She nodded, her small face serious, and I told her she must come with us to keep her uncle happy.
We left before the dawn. We were twenty marshmen, skilled with boats, twenty warriors, a simpleminded archer, a child, and Iseult. Alfred, of course, did not want me to take Iseult, but I ignored him and he did not argue. Instead he watched us leave, then went to Æthelingæg’s church that now boasted a newly made cross of alder wood nailed to its gable.
And low in the sky above the cross was the full moon. She was low and ghostly pale, and as the sun rose she faded even more, but as the ten punts drifted down the river I stared at her and said a silent prayer to Hoder because the moon is his woman and it was she who must give us victory. Because, for the first time since Guthrum had struck in a winter’s dawn, the Saxons were fighting back.
EIGHT
Before the Pedredan reaches the sea it makes a great curve through the swamp, a curve that is almost three-quarters of a circle and on the inside of the bank where the curve begins there was another tiny settlement: just a half dozen hovels built on stilts sunk into a slight rise in the ground. The settlement was called Palfleot, which means “the place with the stakes,” for the folk who had once lived there had staked eel and fish traps in the nearby streams, but the Danes had driven those folk away and burned their houses, so that Palfleot was now a place of charred pilings and blackened mud. We landed there, shivering in the dawn. The tide was falling, exposing the great banks of sand and mud across which Iseult and I had struggled, while the wind was coming from the west, cold and fresh, hinting of rain, though for now there was a slanting sunlight throwing long shadows of marram grass and reeds across the marshes. Two swans flew south and I knew they were a message from the gods, but what their message was I could not tell.
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